Tripping and Falling
by eohippus
Summary: To climb 17 steps in a drunken state can be tricky. Especially if a landlady-not-housekeeper comes back earlier from her holiday than expected...


_**_**Dear, dear, here we are - my first story and they are kissing already. I´m not intending to write slash, though, just thought they deserve some happy moment after Reichenbach. Your feedback´s much appreciated (very obviously so :-))**_**_

_**I don´t get money for this and I doubt the characters, especially Sherlock, approve of being owned by anyone :-)**_

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><p><em>"Life is infinitely stranger than anything which the mind of man could invent." (A. C. Doyle: A Case of Identity)<br>_

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><p><strong>Tripping and Falling<br>**

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><p>They are both startled by the sound of the front door slamming shut. While John is hastily trying to pull away and get to his feet again, Sherlock stays put, one arm still slung around John´s hips, eyes fixed on the dark shadow in the doorframe.<p>

"So sorry, dearies", Mrs. Hudson chirps merrily, not at all shocked by the scene unfolding before her. "My flight was resceduled to an earlier departure, otherwise I would never have disturbed you," she explains, beaming.

John, who has finally managed to pry Sherlock´s hands from his hips, gets up, slightly swaying. "We are sorry, Mrs. Hudson," he replies. "This might look a bit funny, but we just tripped - too much wine, I´m afraid."

Sherlock sends a venomous glare towards his flatmate. "Are you actually ashamed you kissed me, Dr. Watson?" he spits.

"Tut, tut, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson chimes in. "You know how considerate John is. I would certainly not have been delighted if someone walked in on me while I was entwined in a passionate embrace in my younger days – and most certainly not in such an interesting setting," she chuckles, blushing slightly, and bends down to pick up her suitcase.

John hurries to snatch it up. "As I said, no display of passion here, Mrs. Hudson," he says coldly. "We tripped."

"Oh, and I am your housekeeper, not your landlady," she retorts, smiling. "Always knew you two are made for each other. But John, you should really stop apologising. Just look how mad Sherlock gets - doesn´t he look really frightening when he´s upset?"

Sherlock, who has gone up in one elegant, cat-like stride, towers behind John, fists balled tight at his side, eyes glaring. "Don´t give her any of this shit," he hisses. "And stop finding excuses, for God´s sake."

"But..." John starts, but then notices the hurt in Sherlock´s eyes and trails off, clinging even tighter to Mrs. Hudson´s suitcase.

"He´s right, sweetie. No need to apologize. I´m so glad you two have finally sorted things out," their landlady-not-housekeeper chirps and pries her baggage from John´s limp hand.

"But we´re not..." John starts again, only to find himself grabbed by his arms and being shoved up the remaining ten steps to their door by his flatmate.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls over his shoulder.

"Good night, you two. And don´t worry, Sherlock, John loves you just as much," she replies.

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><p>While John´s dazed mind ponders on how on earth their landlady can be so sure of something he has been hiding from himself continuously for more than a year, he is being hurled into their sitting-room and onto the sofa. Sherlock pins him down, his face only inches from John´s, his dark curls nearly ticking John´s nose. "Prat," he hisses and lets go of the doctor´s arms to make a dash for his room. When the door slams shut, John leans back, tiredly closing his eyes.<p>

He must have slept soundly into the day, for when he wakes, rays of pallid winter sunlight fall on his face. He feels drawn and heavy. The wine, he muses, he is more used to beer, and yesterday they really had a bit too much of a drink.

Yesterday... he bolts upright, groaning. Yesterday was definitely not fine at all, neither their hilariousness at Angelo´s and during their way home, nor what he did when he fell into Sherlock´s arms and definitely not the unexpected return of Mrs. Hudson. Probably he will be better off to work and pretend none of this has happened. Only that he is not expected at the hospital today, since it is Sunday, which is why they went out yesterday in the first place.

John groans as he remembers his weak excuse and the look on Sherlock´s face. He knows there was no need for explanations, as Mrs. Hudson adores both her boys, as she calls them and never wavers in her faith anyway that they are more than just friends. Why should a women who tolerates a tenant who is in the habit of frequently shooting the walls be put off by any odd behaviour, he wonders. Not that kissing and cuddling were an especially odd way of interacting for humans after all.

No, he is the one acting odd, he is fleeing the obvious, denying that he has been smitten with Sherlock probably since way back when they met for the first time. If he was braver, he would get up this instant, go to Sherlock´s room and tell the detective that he is sorry, he has been wrong. But he can´t muster the courage to leave the sofa and stays, head buried in his hands.

Thirty minutes pass, and John realizes all of a sudden that it has been far too quiet in the flat. It is this silence which sets in when there is no living being breathing and rustling about, a very audible silence which settles in heavily and which only adds to John´s unease. He walks up to Sherlock´s door, which is usually shut and takes in the ruffled sheets and the familiar mess of books and casefiles strewn on the floor. Clearly, the detective is not in and John, relieved that he doesn´t have to talk to him just now, decides to have breakfast.

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><p>Their front door bangs shut just as he is taking the last sip of his tea and he hears Sherlock dashing in as bright and eager as if he has just been informed that a new serial killer is roaming the streets of London. A short silence follows as the detective strips off his coat and shawl, and finally his lean figure fills their tiny kitchen, hair rustled by the fierce January wind, hands clasped in front of his mouth, blowing into them to get them warm again.<p>

"Chilly night. Temperature´s down to minus fifteen degrees celsius", he says by way of a greeting and strides towards the oven, where he pours himself a tea. There is no trace of feeling in his statement, it is only a pretty usual, down-to-the-fact Sherlockian observation, and John, still musing on the events of the past evening, is lost for words.

"Didn´t know you´re on a new case", he finally manages to reply.

Sherlock takes another mouthful of his tea, his blue eyes boring into John´s. "No case," he says. "I needed some air." He rolls his mug between his hands thoughtfully, then sets it down on the kitchen table with an audible thud.

"Listen, John, if what happened yesterday is disturbing you so much, I´ll promise it`ll never happen again. I´d rather not lose you as a friend."

What an absurd offer, John thinks. "Do you really think that feelings can be erased so easily?" he asks.

"I´ve managed before," Sherlock replies.

"You´ve pushed people away, yes. But this is not the same. You are offering me your friendship while you´d fancy me as your lover - you care, Sherlock, and as soon as one cares, logic can go to hell."

"John. I won´t want to hamper you. Our kiss was an interesting experience but if you consider it an unbearable act, we can just go on as if nothing ever happened."

Furiously, John jumps from his chair.

"What the f... - Sherlock, do you really believe you can reason me into ignoring what we did - what I did? Do you think that logic is the way one can cope with one´s feelings? Do you actually think it helps you to forget how you feel - how I do?" He falters and stumbles back towards the wall, eyes closing.

Sherlock has stiffened visibly with every word, but at John´s last remark he takes two swift steps towards his friend, who has buried his face in his hands. Delicately, he pries them away, holding on to John´s cheekbones just as he did when he they were trying to decipher the sprayer´s code in the case of the Blind Banker, but very much softer.

Carefully, he raises John´s face so their eyes are on the same level.

"You do," he whispers with a hint of desperation, questioningly.

"Yes," John breathes, suddenly hoarse, leaning in ever so softly to Sherlock´s light-handed touch until their lips meet in a much more ginger kiss than the night before. They are melting together perfectly and it is only when Sherlock pushes John closer, John is pulling away, smiling.

"No apologies, Sherlock. It´s all fine," he whispers. And, after all, it is.


End file.
